


An Artist and His Muse

by doyoushipwhoiship



Category: Dorian Gray (2009)
Genre: Angst, Basically they kiss and then they want more, First Kiss, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23453848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doyoushipwhoiship/pseuds/doyoushipwhoiship
Summary: At the party, Dorian and Basil share their first kiss. Now what?
Relationships: Dorian Gray/Basil Hallward
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	An Artist and His Muse

Basil couldn’t believe his eyes. Of course, he’d seen Dorian in the nude before, when painting him at the cottage in the country, but never had the baring of Mr. Gray’s body—specifically his private parts—been as lewd and improper as this. “D-Dorian,” he struggled, reaching for the younger man’s wrist. “Please.”

Dorian frowned and knelt before the artist, like a saint before a relic. (No truer reversal of roles had ever before been performed.) “What’s wrong?”

_You’re a man and I’m attracted to you_. Basil shook his head, trying to clear his throat as it threatened to close up. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Oh.” This was unexpected. Dorian reached to cover himself.

“I mean no offense…” he tried to explain.

“No, I’m not offended. I’m confused, that’s all. I thought…I thought you wanted this.”

“I do!” After having suddenly said this, Basil internally cursed his lack of self-control. It was all Dorian’s fault. _He does this to me_.

“You do? Truly?”

“Dorian, of course I do. Everyone wants you. Those women in the other room, they were swooning all over you…”

“Basil, those girls don’t mean anything. They’re paid to swoon over me; to bend—sometimes literally—to my whims.” A devilish glimmer flashed momentarily in Dorian’s eyes.

“This is sin, Dorian.” He could think of nothing else to say.

“We are all sinners in the eyes of God. Humanity has its countless imperfections, and we as individuals must appeal to our higher power for forgiveness.”

“Quoting Harry again, are we?” bristled Basil.

“No, I’m quoting what’s in _here_ ,” Dorian reached for one of Basil’s hands, which was given without hesitation, and pressed it palm-flat to his own chest. “I did go to Sunday school. I’m not completely a heathen, you know.” He blinked and stared beguilingly until even Basil was forced to flash the tiniest of smiles. “My mother taught me good and evil, yes, but she also taught me love. You love me, don’t you, Basil? And not in the way I love women, or in the way Lord Henry loves the way I look, but as its own unique feeling. I see in your eyes I’m not wrong.”

Basil swallowed thickly but continued listening.

“How would you describe it, then? Your love for me?”

“All-consuming.” That was the first word that sprang to Basil’s mind, and he said it immediately. _There goes my self-control again_. “I often describe you to people as my muse, Dorian, as the primary source of inspiration in my work, and although these descriptions are correct…” He glanced at his hand on Dorian’s chest and faltered briefly before finding the will to continue. “Dorian, you are all this and more.” His hand involuntarily clenched into a fist around the fabric of Mr. Gray’s waistcoat as his throat tightened, and tears sprang unbidden to his eyes.

“I sing praises of your beauty, yes, but I love you for the person you are _within_ this magnificent form of yours. And although I wish to God I’d never introduced you to Lord Henry, and let him take you away from me, I accept whatever responsibilities may come with your newfound friendship with him. If my art suffers, so be it. If your actions deem any further paintings impossible, very well. All I ask is that you treasure the portrait I made of you, which is truly my finest work, and even if you do not allow me to display it in my exhibition, I trust it will always have one admirer who might enjoy it at his leisure: you.”

Dorian’s stomach turned in shame. He’d taken advantage of Basil’s romantic feelings in an effort to distract him from the painting, which in fact had been cursed and was suffering the ill effects of his own iniquitous behavior. He never wanted Basil to see the painting again—which, of course, could very well be an impossible goal to achieve. He must have blushed and his breathing must have quickened, for Basil had leant closer to him and was inquiring after his health.

“Dorian? Have I shocked you? Are you quite well?”

“What? Oh, yes. I’m absolutely fine, Basil, just. I don’t want to go back to the party.”

“Certainly. Shall I go down and ask the guests to leave?”

“No, I suppose they all came for a party and were expecting one. I wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone.” Dorian glanced about distractedly, eyeing a trio of women at the far end of the hall and a pair of men engaged in close conversation, no more than several steps away. “No,” he decided. “Let them stay.”

“Dorian, I hate to mother you, but you’ve gone as white as a sheet.”

Basil’s hand left the young man’s chest and drifted instead to his arm. He gripped it gently. Dorian looked up, gazing fixatedly at Mr. Hallward’s mouth. Had they really been kissing only a few moments ago? And here, in plain view, in front of anyone and everyone who may have happened to walk by? “Basil, tell the guests I’ve taken ill, and meet me in my room, please. Five minutes.”

Before the artist could utter a reply, Dorian had hurried down the corridor and turned a corner which led to the servants’ stairs.

On the main floor, Lord Henry seemed genuinely disappointed in the fact that Mr. Gray would not be joining the group for the activities which took place even later in the night. Suffice it to say, Harry did not inquire as to the particulars of Dorian’s illness, nor did he ask if there was anything he could do to assist in the matter. Those few guests who actually bothered to wonder what had happened to Dorian were provided with a quick explanation from one of their fellow partygoers—a popular theory was that his dinner hadn’t settled well, or that he’d had too much to drink too quickly—and once Basil felt that his responsibility of messenger to the guests was duly dealt with, he made his way back upstairs.

“Who is it?” Dorian asked from the bed. He sat on the edge of his mattress with either hand gripping the duvet in his now-evident agitation.

Basil, who had just knocked, replied by stating his name. He entered, closed and locked the door behind him, and rushed to Dorian’s side without so much as a “Come in” from him.

“Is everyone satisfied?”

“Yes, except Lord Henry. He says you’ll be missing out on some of his favorite games. Assuming you already know what these ‘games’ of his are, and to spare myself the indignity of having to ask him about them, I let the matter rest.”

“Very good, Basil,” the younger man chuckled. He reached up to get his tie undone, but his hands were trembling.

“Let me help you.” In the blink of an eye, Basil had it untied and was placing it on the top of Dorian’s bureau when he saw the man staring at him. “Artists tend to have steady hands,” he replied with a soft, albeit awkward, chuckle. It was an effort, Dorian knew, to try and save him from the embarrassment of being… what? Afraid?

“I want to be clear about something.”

Basil tentatively took a seat beside Dorian on the mattress and turned to him in earnest. “Yes?”

“I kissed you as an expression of my gratitude,” he explained in precise, measured tones, “but I continued kissing you because I wanted to. Because I wanted—”

Basil waited patiently.

“Because…” _My God, why is this so difficult?_ “I want you, too.”

Somewhat alarmingly, (at least to Dorian, who truly felt insecure about such matters underneath the layers of false bravado he’d developed after discovering his portrait’s supernatural powers), Basil’s first reaction was a faint laugh. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.” Dorian frowned, his lower lip just barely jutting out. Basil found it irresistible.

Staring at his muse’s mouth, he continued: “You can’t possibly. I understand how you’ve been… _experimenting_ as of late…” Basil blushed terribly, willing himself to meet Dorian’s wounded gaze “…but I truly believe that you are a man who’s destined to be with a woman. Think of Sibyl, for instance. That young actress you told me of. Now, she could be—”

“No,” he interrupted gravely, with a shake of the head. “She couldn’t.”

“What,” came Basil’s nervous laugh again, “are you really that determined to have me?”

Dorian drew his lower lip back in, and bit it. “Yes,” he answered. “That is—if _you_ will have _me_.”

“Give me your hands.” (They were still shaking, and distracting the artist something awful.) “Now, look here, Dorian. I’m a handful of years your senior and that means you ought to defer to my advice and expertise. _Of course,_ I’ll have you—in fact, in the past I haven’t even let myself _dream_ of having you—but now, here, in this moment, don’t think of me; think of yourself. You need to think of the best possible life for _you_. The world these days is, well, less than friendly toward men who love other men. If word of your preference is somehow spread to the public, you may become ostracized by society—or worse, imprisoned.”

“There are risks to everything,” replied Dorian curtly. “There would be risks in bringing Sibyl, or any other woman like her, into my household. Marrying her, and all that.”

“But you must agree there is a far greater risk attached to coming out as a homosexual,” rejoined Basil with a sigh.

Dorian nodded in silence and held Basil’s hands a bit tighter. His own had stopped shaking a few moments ago. A lengthy pause ensued for a few moments more, before Dorian took action: specifically, an action which seemed to completely contradict Basil’s advice. He slid off the bed, onto the carpeted floor, and knelt down on one knee. His hands, of which Basil had not wanted to let go, slid down the artist’s leg to rest on his right ankle, just above his shoe.

Basil took an uneven breath. “What are you doing?”

“Undressing you.” Dorian began to calmly tug at the laces. “When you undress, you do start by removing your shoes, don’t you?”

“Dorian—”

“Please, hush. Let me do this. I want—I _need_ —to do this.”

“Very well.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading :)


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